


Sow The Wind, Reap The Whirlwind

by dustyfluorescent



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:19:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyfluorescent/pseuds/dustyfluorescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things Sherlock Holmes should know. He just can't remember. </p><p>The Doctor knows full well that every decision has its consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sow The Wind, Reap The Whirlwind

**Author's Note:**

> This artwork, [Chameleon Arch](http://terpsichoreanpwrs.deviantart.com/art/Chameleon-Arch-282341357) by ~[Terpsichoreanpwrs](http://terpsichoreanpwrs.deviantart.com/%20), was a huge inspiration for me. I had been thinking about this particular idea for a while (as I'm sure countless other Sherlock loving Whovians before me have done), and after seeing this fanart I just couldn't _not_ write it.

Sherlock has a pocket watch that he always keeps with him. He has had it as long as he can remember. It's beautiful; silver with circular engravings, not quite like anything else he's seen before. The watch doesn't work. The lid doesn't open, in fact Sherlock is fairly sure it never has. He has never even concidered throwing it away, though. It feels important, somehow worth keeping. So he never leaves it anywhere, and he's never let anybody see it. He doesn't know why, exactly. It wouldn't just feel right.

Sherlock has never really paid much attention to the watch. It's almost as if something about it was trying to keep him away - which is ridiculous, obviously, but if there's one thing Sherlock is sure about, it is that ignoring what seems highly improbable leads to nowhere but ignorance. He can't deny that sometimes, when he's holding it, trying to remember when he got it, what happened in the last dream he had, something, _anything_ , he suddenly remembers he has something more important to do, and that really, this doesn't matter at all.

Sometimes, though, it's different. It feels warmer under the tips of his fingers, trembling slightly as if ready to burst with _what, something, he should know this_ \- it doesn't make sense, and he frowns, running his finger over the engravings, wondering what this is all about. And the watch lets him. Like it's alive.

It's the greatest mystery of his life. The one problem he still hasn't managed to solve. It is, of course, frustrating to the extreme. He's learned to live with it, but he still wants to know.

Sometimes it's almost as if he can remember. When he wakes up, panting, heart thrumming its way through his ribs, after dreams that are so full of knowledge, wonder, adventures like nothing he's seen before, horrors unlike anything one could face on this earth. When he forgets where he is, gets lost in a moment, thinking about how this world around still feels so foreign. _What it must be like in your funny little brains_. He still can't understand. And he should. He's a person, after all, isn't he? Just like everybody else. 

Only he isn't, and never has been. 

He sometimes think about John, and his heart so big that Sherlock would need another one just to measure up. That thought feels like home.

It all feels like a mistake. Like something is off. He spends hours thinking what it might be about. Never belonging. The rush he gets, when something finally happens in his stupid mundane life, the one in which he's stuck on this useless planet, in this city that even at its best is never really that surprising. He writes down things that don't make sense; how he can't remember anything about the Solar System, no matter how hard he tries. He wonders what else he's forgotten, because somehow it feels as though he should know all of this, and more. There's an empty space in his brain that is constantly running in overdrive. His mind is always ready to explode, and he's never met anything or anyone who would really interest him. _I feel as though I should know more than I can even understand_ , he writes one morning. _Tonight, I dreamed about a planet with orange skies and red meadows, and it was so beautiful that it made me cry._

And every single time, when he can practically feel how close he is to the truth, something distracts him. He puts the notebook away, and doesn't even touch the watch for days, because nothing even vaguely related to it seems important. His dreams are ordinary, and nothing seems out of place. He can't remember what was so interesting about all of this, anyway. He keeps the notebook, but he doesn't really even care what's in it. Not important. Nothing needs to change, nothing at all. And nothing ever does.

And then he meets that man.

***

He wakes up one night, not knowing why. It's dark, it's quiet, and everything seems perfectly ordinary, but he isn't tired anymore. He gets up, pulls on his dressing gown, and slowly walks to his bedroom door. He stands there for a second, hand resting on the door handle, wondering what the hell he's doing. It makes no sense, but he feels as tough he hasn't really got a choice. Something is happening right now. It's very important and he can't let it pass. 

That's when he hears the sound. It's otherworldly, nothing like anything he's heard before, and it makes his heart jump. Not because it's sudden, or because he can't recognise it, but because, for just a fraction of a second, for no good reason, he feels overwhelming joy and relief. _They've left the brakes on_. The thought is gone before he can quite catch it, but it leaves him blinking and holding his breath. He should know. He just can't remember.

So he opens the door and walks to the living room. What he finds there is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. He doesn't know why he feels like that. It's an old police phone box from the sixties, the kind you can still find if you look hard enough. Its place is definitely not in his living room, but that's not what he's thinking about. He has a feeling that a police box isn't what he's looking at. And when a man steps out of it, he's sure.

The man is wearing a brown pinstripe suit, a long brown coat, and a pair of cream coloured Converse shoes. His hair is impossible, and the expression on his face astounded, to say the least. Sherlock takes a quick scan, but he can't tell much. The man is definitely older than he looks, and moves about as if he weren't quite used to his body, which is odd for someone his age. He's grieving, but trying to cover it up for someone else's sake, and that has been the case for some time now. He's recently travelled in time, and his ship is quite likely bigger on the inside. And it definitely shouldn't look like a police box. _A faulty chameleon circuit_. Sherlock frowns. The thought is gone again before he can catch it.

"Where am I?" the man asks, astounded.

"221B Baker Street, London, England. It's Tuesday, March 9, 2010. I'm fairly certain that the time is about two in the morning."

The man turns to look at him, as if only noticing him now. He raises an eyebrow, and smiles.

"You're not stupid."

"That's an understatement of catastrophic proportions."

The man laughs, and runs his fingers through his hair. 

"Right," he says. "Sorry for barging in like this. This wasn't exactly my planned destination."

"Clearly not," Sherlock says, lips curling to a smile. He's amused, and definitely intrigued. This is certainly quite a lot more interesting than anything else he's been a part of in a long time. He'd like to say never, but he doesn't, because something about that feels like a lie. He's not sure what always means for him anymore, because something about this man is special. He's not human, for sure. Can't be. But there's something very familiar about him. Sherlock suddenly thinks about his watch, and frowns. Absently, he takes it out, and strokes his thumb over the lid. Nothing feels different from before. 

"Have we met?" he asks, even though he's pretty sure he knows the answer. He would remember. Sherlock Holmes isn't usually prone to ask stupid questions. Right now, however, everything seems enough out of place for him to do so. 

"Not sure," the man says. "Might have, from your point of view, that is. Things don't always happen to me in the -"

"In the right order. Time travel. Yes, I gathered."

But the man isn't listening to him anymore. Instead, he's staring at the watch Sherlock is holding. The look on his face is of fairly well-hidden astonishment, and something a bit like grief. Maybe that, maybe something else as well, and then the man has noticed Sherlock looking. The walls are back up, and he turns his gaze. 

"So, how is everything?" he says, cheerful. It seems rehearsed. Sherlock smiles.

"Everything is perfectly fine, thank you very much. But that's not what you want to ask. Is it?"

For a second, it seems as though he's caught the man off guard. Then, he lets out a nervous laugh. 

"I like your watch. It's extraordinary."

"You've never seen anything like it, then?"

The man looks away, smiling, but doesn't answer.

"You've always had it?" he says instead.

"I don't need to tell you that."

The man shrugs. He then walks up to the mantelpiece, and takes the skull in his hands. He strokes its forehead with his thumb, almost by accident, but it looks more like he's trying to hide something. And there it is, another one of those walls Sherlock can't get past, right in front of him. It frustrates him to no end.

"Maybe you could tell me anyway?" the man asks, and now it's rather obvious that he's avoiding looking at Sherlock. There's a desperate ring to his voice. His shoulders are rigid, and he is certainly giving the skull far more attention than it would deserve. 

"Why would I? You're not being honest with me."

The man laughs, sighs, and sets the skull back on the mantelpiece. "Sorry about that."

"You won't tell me, then?"

"No." Pause. "I should go. I've stayed too long already."

They don't bother exchanging pleasantries. They both know it's not necessary. There is nothing Sherlock can think of saying, and that feeling is surely mutual. 

Sherlock doesn't know where he should look, but he knows that following this man would be a start. He knows something Sherlock is aching to find out. But that is something he clearly isn't willing to share. So Sherlock lets him leave with his secret. Maybe he wasn't supposed to know. 

It is the hardest decision he's ever had to make. He's not at all certain that it is the right one.

The phone box disappears. The sound is deafening, and it brings tears to his eyes. He can feel something he can't explain tightening in his chest. There's a gush of wind from nowhere at the last flash of the deepest, most beautiful blue he's ever seen, and it feels like a permission to let it go.

He sits in his chair by the empty fireplace for hours, fingering the watch, not thinking about anything at all. This curious encounter seems less noteworthy every second, but Sherlock knows he doesn't want to forget about it. 

His dreams are ordinary that night, and he can't remember them when he wakes up. Someone's moved the skull, but that is hardly important. Must have been Mrs Hudson cleaning, or John raiding the place to make sure Sherlock is clean. 

The night has been quiet and uneventful, not unlike any other. John has thrown out his yeast sample from the fridge; Sherlock had been growing it behind the mayonnaise. There are no interesting cases, and the country is still full of idiots. Sherlock absently thinks about the old broken watch he still has. He should really just throw it out already. Sentiment. It was never really his thing.

***

The Doctor leaves 221B Baker Street swallowing back tears, absolutely certain that he will never return. He should have known this would happen, he thinks to himself. What goes around, comes around. He should have known. 

"You took me to him on purpose, didn't you," he absently mutters to his ship, stroking the console with sad eyes, thinking about the things he could have said, the things he could have done differently. And he could still go back, tell him everything. He could, but he won't.

He's always been a coward.

Yes, I know everything there is to know about that watch. I am the only person in the universe who could tell you, because I have killed everyone else. I brought you where you are now, to this life you find inadequate, to this world where you don't belong. And this he won't tell, because he can't bear to face the things he's done, not again, not when he's finally left all of that behind, as much as he ever will.

He thinks about going back. Just for a second. He wouldn't need to tell, he would just like for Sherlock to see what he should always have known. He could just take him for a quick spin, show him the universe, everything he's missed. But the risk is too great. Sherlock is not stupid. 

So he doesn't tell Sherlock Holmes anything. And by doing that, he tells him he knows him, and more. He tells him that he has answers he will never give. That they will never meet again, and that it's over, and Sherlock will never know. That much, Sherlock can see, but the layer of lies is too thick for even him to possibly dig through. He will never know how things are, not really. There's too much he couldn't possibly understand. After all, he's just human.

Rule number one. The Doctor lies. That's the only thing he's good for. He should stop trying to lie to himself, though. It doesn't work. 

He knows perfectly well that he isn't going to leave this behind. This is something that he won't ever forget.

***

_It's time now, he thinks, staring at the burning skies, the destruction and pain and misery all around him. The Shining World of the Seven Systems must now come to an end._

_It's time to do what should have been done ages ago. It's not easy, but if he doesn't take responsibility now, nobody else ever will. This has got out of hand, and not a lot of people who would acknowledge that are alive anymore. He's been fighting in the front line, for his people, for his home. But he can't fight for destruction, not for cold-blooded murder, not for what his people have become, what he sees all around him. Not for the destruction of the eternal balance of the universe. Not when he knows what they want, not now that he can see what it would do. It is time to take a stand for the greater good. Almost everyone he used to love is dead, anyway, and what has become of what's left of the Time Lords isn't something that can be allowed to exist any longer._

_There is one thing to consider, though. His son._

_He's planned this. Everything is perfect, and he's absolutely certain that nothing can go wrong. He's left no room for error. Nevertheless, it doesn't make this any easier, and quite frankly, it's the only reason he hasn't done it already. This isn't about Gallifrey. This is about his only child, the only one who still lives, the only one he could still save, and he is so young. He can't leave him, but he doesn't want him to live with a burden like the one he's about to create. Not with a father like the man he's about to make himself. He knows what he has to do, and it is the hardest thing he's ever had to decide._

_There's no denying the fact that it is time for Gallifrey to burn. The time has come for the Time Lords to disappear, and to take care of that is his burden to carry, and his alone. But a man who kills everybody of his own kind isn't a good man._

_On the night Gallifrey ceases to exist, The Doctor travels to Earth with a frightened child who is asking for his dead mother and dead brother, everyone he's ever known, and they're all dead. He doesn't explain, his child won't need to remember. The Doctor looks away from the agony on his son's face. He can't bear to look, when his child forgets everything and changes._

_The Doctor talks to a man he trusts. He holds the boy close to him as he wipes his memory as gently as he can. Maybe, one day, he thinks, but he knows that day will never come._

_When The Doctor finally bids Mr and Mrs Holmes goodbye, he leaves behind a little human boy and a silver fob watch._


End file.
